The Wisdom of the Steward
by Laura Andrews
Summary: Denethor looks in the Palantir for the last time. Bookverse.


Denethor sits brooding in his chamber high above the citadel. The Palantir sits nearby, covered in a black cloth, and Denethor's eye turns thither again and again as his thoughts stir within him. A witless halfling … Denethor can scarcely believe it still. And his son, Faramir, of all people; his son, whom he thought had some little wisdom. They are all mad. Or more likely, they are all in conspiracy against him.

The Ring of power! How he envies Boromir his sight of it. Clearly Gandalf has fallen into dotage, to allow one of those small, childish creatures to carry about a thing of such worth when it is needed here, in Gondor, for the aid of the city.

Long has Denethor pondered Isildur's Bane, and what he might do if it fell into his hand; now that he knows what it is, his wrath is the greater that it came so nigh and yet never came to him.

_Boromir, Boromir, thou wouldst have brought it unto me, I know it. My dutiful son, free of the influence of wizards, owing allegiance only to Gondor and to thy father._

He has knowledge now of the Ring; he must guard himself from revealing his mind to the Nameless One. Curse Gandalf for a fool! The halfling now bears with him the fate of men, unworthily, but he bears it alone. If the Nameless One should catch even a hint of it, then all would be lost.

If only, if only Faramir had brought it to him! If only he had a son left who would do his bidding always, and not only when it suited that son's fancy. If only Boromir had lived.

He turns his dark eyes to the Palantir and gazes at the velvet covering.

No.

Tonight he will not look into it, not while his thoughts are consumed with the enemy's Ring. He descends the stair to his stark chamber and for a moment he looks out of the window into the darkness. Far away he fancies he can see the glow of Mount Doom, and almost, with his keen thought, he sees two tiny figures struggling towards it.

What he would have done, if the Ring were his! He sighs and goes to his bed; but all night he dreams of the deeds he might have accomplished, and of Barrad-dur thrown down, and of Harad and the Eastern lands subject to Gondor, and of Boromir brought back from the dead and restored to him.

But into the midst of his dreams comes a man, a shadow with no face visible, but with a star on his brow.

The next day, when Faramir is brought back wounded, wounded to the death perhaps, Denethor's grief and anger are twin dragons within him. Grief, because of his harshness towards his younger son, and anger because if he had the Ring then this would never have come to pass.

Anger against the dark lord is foremost, but also anger against Gandalf, and Faramir, and any who had a part in sending the Ring away from Gondor where it is most needed.

Long he sits beside Faramir, and then when it is evening he goes up to the tower. Now is the time to make a contest of his will against Sauron, to show him that he does not fight against dotards or cowards.

_Yea, I will use they name, oh Nameless One. I have strength and a will of mine own. Am I not descended from Numenor, in true line? Have I not ruled this city well and truly, and kept thy armies at bay?_

But he must not betray the Ring. No, he will turn the seeing stone to his own purpose, and learn what he may from it.

He uncovers the stone and gazes into its depths. He sees the dark tower, and in his thought he looks instead towards Anduin. But even as he does so, the enemy is aware of him.

_Greetings, steward of Gondor. Thou art come again to see what I will show thee._

Denethor does not respond. The enemy presses against him sorely, but he will not yield. He tries to wrench the stone away from that accursed room where sits a brooding shadow. For an instant he succeeds, but then he is drawn back as easily as if he were a fly on a string. The enemy's laughter cuts into his mind, harsh, cruel, and mirthless.

_There is somewhat on thy mind, steward of Gondor. Tell me what troubles thee so._

Denethor sets his jaw and once again he tries to turn the stone away from the cruel shadow, but to no avail. The enemy laughs once more.

_Thou hast no strength to match mine, little steward. I have lived many ages and I have seen many men, mightier than thou, turn to me and worship me. Why wilt thou not worship me? Behold this, then, and maybe thou wilt see wisdom._

Immediately a quick succession of images flash within the stone. Black ships sail up the Anduin; troop after troop of orc and southron and easterling march down to Osgiliath, and from Osgiliath to the Pelennor; Mount Doom erupts in flame and wrath; a mighty battering ram is drawn over the fields; nine dark shapes perch atop the ghastly city of Minas Morgul.

Denethor trembles. He can feel his thoughts being drawn from him even now, as his guard is down.

_Do you still resist my will? It is hopeless. I will triumph over Gondor and all the lands which thou believest, in thy ignorance, to be under thy care. The West is nothing; all its great men have gone down into darkness. I have taken thy sons and there is none left of the line of the stewards save thee only; and I shall come to thee, when Minas Tirith has fallen, and bear thee away for thy torment, since thou wouldst not bend thy will to mine. Now tell me what it is that troubles thee._

There is a long silence, in which the enemy probes his mind; the pain is like a hot blade. He is so near to the truth, to finding out about … Denethor resists, and resists, but he cannot hold out for long. The pain in his head increases, not steadily, but in leaps and bounds, until he can bear it no longer. With a jerk, he wrenches his eyes from the stone and sweeps it off of the table with his arm. It clatters to the floor and rolls into a corner.

And Denethor, once proud steward of Gondor, falls and lies on the floor like a beast. All that is in his mind are the words and the images which Sauron showed him. There is no strength of men that can prevail against such might. There is no hope in halfling Ring-bearers, nor in kings disguised as rangers, nor in wizards who are but wise fools.

Nothing can withstand the dark lord and his armies. The west is no more.

With such thoughts as these he stumbles back to the chamber where Faramir lies, and he sits wordless beside his son as the black night goes on.


End file.
